Page 1 of Dean (Unexpected #9)

CHAPTER ONE

AVERY

There is no way my boss, Dean, is going to miss the purple bruise on my cheek. It stands out like a beacon. I even tried to cover it up with makeup, but to no avail. Somehow, the foundation just made it more noticeable. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just notice it because it hurts.

I sweep my long, dark-blond hair over my face as I move into the spacious garage, hoping that he doesn’t look too hard.

Oh god, don’t let him look at me.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean says almost immediately, and I sigh. Well, that took all of two seconds. So much for my hour spent in the car, trying like hell to cover it up. What a waste of time and makeup. I could have slept in. Well, not really—considering I’m homeless now and all.

Not that this is the first time I’ve experienced this, but alas. I figured I was on the up and up.

Slowly, I turn toward him, adjusting the straps on my overalls and meeting his dark brown eyes. Fuck, he’s hot. It’s a crime, actually. No one should be this good-looking. Those muscles, those legs. All those tattoos. Yes, he should definitely be in jail. He’s a detriment to gay boys like me.

“Just a…tiny mishap,” I say calmly. “I ran into a wall. Or a doorknob. Lots of dangerous things out there.”

Dean stalks toward me, his worn jeans hugging his delicious thighs, the muscles in his tattooed arms bunching and flexing beneath his t-shirt as he comes to a stop in front of me. Crime, I repeat, a crime.

His index finger reaches out and touches my chin, tilting my face up, and that one simple contact lights my entire body on fire.

Oh, hell. This is becoming a serious problem.

I cannot like my straight, older boss. That’s not a thing.

“You have a bruise on your cheek,” he says, those dark eyes meeting my light gray ones in a clash of color.

“Yes, well…mishap. Like I said. And really, if you think about it, the color contrast makes it a nice piece of art on my face…”

His eyes narrow and his lips pinch into a thin line. “Office, Avery. Now .”

And then his hand drops and he’s stalking off in the other direction, his tight ass looking delectable in those jeans.

I bet it’s a nice round ass too, perfectly proportioned.

I want to take a bite out of it. Like a piece of pie.

Pulling my gaze away, I glance over and see Dean’s son, Ben, sitting at the small wooden desk in the corner of the shop. He has a textbook open in front of him, his petite body curled over the tabletop, his lips muttering something unintelligible. Cash and Ford are here somewhere in the large garage, working on the slew of vintage cars and motorcycles occupying the space.

Dean, Cash, and Ford own and run this place together. They restore old cars and motorcycles for clients willing to pay through the nose for their talents. And because they’d much rather have fun rebuilding shit, I was hired to help Dean with the nitty-gritty details of running a business this large and successful.

With me taking care of the office work—which was a mess when I first started—Dean can focus on doing the things he loves, like messing around with engine parts and making motorcycles ridiculously loud .

Ben has also stepped up a lot to help his dad. He comes in when he’s available between his college classes and his job at the retirement home to help do simple things, like filing paperwork and sweeping the floors. He and his dad seem really close, so I’m not surprised to see Ben here. And honestly, since I started working here, I’ve noticed there may be other reasons Ben is so eager to spend his free time around the shop. Two very large, tattooed male reasons.

Perhaps Ben is a sluttier slut than I give him credit for.

We just might be in a competition of sorts.

“Avery,” Dean says loudly, and I jump slightly, picking up the pace. That man has the patience of a three-year-old some days. Today is a tantrum day, apparently. He probably had me schedule it in.

Ben glances up from his textbook at the cutting tone of his father, and I send him a wave. He smiles sweetly at me just as Cash rounds the corner, his eyes fixed on Ben.

Oh, that poor boy. He has no idea that these men are after him too.

Or maybe he does.

Either way…bless his little heart.

I’ve never had sex with two men at the same time, but perhaps that’s something Ben is into.

Before my mind can move to things like double penetration, I step into Dean’s office and close the door, my arms immediately folding across my chest. I need to take a defensive stance so Dean knows I won’t be barreled over. I mean, really, Dean could bend me over any day, but I’m not a doormat.

“Spill,” Dean says, like he has any authority over me. Like he’s my father.

He could be, technically. He’s old enough. I’m a measly twenty-two, and he’s forty-something.

And straight as an arrow too. It’s a damn shame this man will never veer off course. Doesn’t stop me from imagining that he would though.

I wish he’d pull a big fat detour, right into my ass.

He leans back on the edge of his desk, his thick thighs spread before him, and I wrench my eyes away before I start drooling. There was a puddle once. Had to use a mop and everything .

But now, I need to be discreet. I have to keep this little crush between me, myself and I.

“Oh god, stop looking at me like that,” I grumble, shifting on my feet.

He doesn’t say a word, just stares.

Gah, this man! He’s just pulling the truth right out of me. Like a wizard. He should be in some kind of supernatural prison running interrogations. That would be just the job for him.

“Fine. It wasn’t a doorknob. I had a…scuffle with one of my roommates,” I say cautiously.

He continues staring, and I wave my hand around in front of me, feeling somewhat flustered at the intensity with which he cares. I’ve been working here for a little over a year and he’s always given me the utmost attention. Too much sometimes.

No wonder my crush is huge and overpowering. I stood no chance when it came to him.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

“I mean, Dean, you really don’t need to know the details?—”

“Spill it.”

I sigh like a bratty teen. “I might have slept in my car last night because technically, I’m homeless now. You happy you pulled that out of me?”

His hands clutch the edge of his desk tightly, his nostrils flaring.

“And you didn’t think to call me?” he finally asks.

Okay, so we might be a little closer than your average boss-employee relationship. We joke around often, and I occasionally bring him little treats I’ve baked. But like, no way I would ever call him in a time of need. He’s my boss…kind of a friend maybe. But he’s most definitely not my lover. I won’t call him. I refuse. That would be crossing so many lines.

It’s bad enough that I masturbate to thoughts of him. Really, he needs to just stop it.

I fold my arms back across my chest and arch an eyebrow at this ridiculous man. It’s all a bit of bravado though because if I knew he felt even an ounce of what I feel for him, I would step between those legs of his and let him hold me .

I could use a hug after last night.

But it will never be like that between us.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth and chewing on it. It’s not like I haven’t experienced this before. This is a story as old as time.

With parents like mine, who needs enemies?

Dean’s eyes swivel down to my mouth briefly and then he asks, “It does matter. Where will you stay tonight?”

I shrug, not feeling overly concerned because I’ve been on my own for quite a while and have always managed. “I’ll figure it out.”

He taps a rhythm on the wood of his desk, the ring on his thumb clanking against it noisily. I love those rings. Sometimes I daydream about how they’d feel if he ever touched my dick.

Probably warm and cool at the same time.

“You’ll stay with me.”

My eyes snap up to his. “Um, what? Dean, absolutely not!”

“Absolutely, you will. You have any other options?”

I huff and glance away.

“Well, no, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition. You have your shit?”

I scoff because I didn’t think to grab anything when I made my escape. I was just glad to be out of that toxic living environment. Not to mention, they’d kind of, sort of locked me out, anyway. I couldn’t have gone back if I’d tried.

Homophobic assholes.

“Do you or don’t you have your stuff?” he asks, and I roll my eyes very dramatically.

“I don’t have it. It’s still at the apartment.”

“We’ll grab it at lunch,” he says and then nods, like yep, it’s settled .

It’s not settled. Not at all.

“Dean,” I begin. “I’m not staying with you. What about Ben?”

“Ben took the room over the detached garage a while ago. I have a spare room in the house that’s all yours.”

Oh god, living with him…I’m going to need to jack off like morning, noon, and night. What if he walks around in a tiny towel after a sh ower or walks around in nothing at all? My heart will not survive. I should make a will for when I eventually expire.

In fact, I should call a lawyer on my break. I need someone to leave my high heels to.

“This isn’t up for discussion.”

That commanding voice. Ugh, just get me hard right now, why don’t you? I turn my body slightly so he can’t make out my dick perking up between my legs. It’s why I’ve taken to wearing baggy clothes around this place.

My propensity toward skirts and booty shorts doesn’t allow for the numerous erections I get just by being in Dean’s general vicinity. Hence, the overalls. Plus, I don’t think my preferred attire would go over well here.

These men are very…masculine. And I’m…well, I’m not. Standing at five-foot-five, I’m gangly and thin with long legs, long hair, and an obsession with high heels. I’m not afraid these guys would harm me over it, but I am wary of what they would think if I showed up all dolled up.

I’m not sure they could handle it or if they would accept me like that.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to come out and do it, either.

Accepting myself for who I am has been a bit of a journey, one that I’m still on. I think I’ll need to take some baby steps. I don’t have the confidence yet to unleash it all into the world. Although, I have always wondered how they would react if I showed up here wearing exactly what I want to wear. Maybe I’d start slow…just a skirt and a short top with sneakers. I wonder what they’d think. Would they even say anything?

Would Dean like it?

In my dreams, maybe.

“Fine,” I say and then move around him toward his desk. “I’ll stay with you for a few days. Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

I plop down on his chair as Dean swivels his head around, a smirk on his lips.

“We’re leaving at twelve,” he tells me .

“Can we take the motorcycle?” I ask, and Dean’s lips turn up at the corners.

“And put your shit where, Avery?”

I flush, realizing the mistake I made.

“The Impala it is.”

“Ugh, that thing,” I moan, but I’m grinning because honestly, it’s sexy and loud and fun. Never in a million years would I have thought my mind would change about how dumb cars are. That was until I started working here. Now, I’m all about classic cars. I know more about them than I care to admit. And let me tell you, I love the large backseats. All the more room to fuck in.

But mostly, I like them because of him . Because I like Dean more than is reasonable. I know it’s ridiculous because there is zero chance that man would go for someone like me. But a boy can dream, right?

I will dream all the livelong day.

“We’ll grab your stuff and then head to my place to drop it off. You hungry?” Dean asks, his big, strong hand on the steering wheel of his 1959 Chevrolet Impala. I want him to wrap those fingers around my hair…and my dick, but I digress.

“Yeah, I could eat,” I say, buckling in.

The car rumbles beneath us as I chew on my bottom lip again. It’s an anxious habit, and right now, I’m nervous. Because apparently, I’m going to grab my stuff and move in with the man of my dreams—a man who has been a widower for almost twenty years and only dates beautiful women. I know because I’ve seen them, all long legs, pouty lips, and flowing hair. I sometimes wonder if I bent over, could he imagine I was one? Could he get over any hangups he has about me being a man if he just closed his eyes?

I should be ashamed of my thoughts, but I know I’d do it. I’d offer myself up for a chance to feel him inside of me.

I could probably be okay with once. Just fucking once.

“Put your address in so I know where I’m going,” Dean says, handing me his phone. On the screen, I see a picture of him with Ben, and my heart warms. But I click on the GPS app and input the coordinates, letting him drive me across town to the run-down apartment I shared with three other guys. It wasn’t my ideal living situation, but it worked…until it didn’t.

Until one of them decided he couldn’t accept who I was and lashed out. And the other two just stood there and watched it happen.

At least staying with Dean is the silver lining in all of this. I still can’t believe I agreed to it. I definitely shouldn’t have agreed to it.

We drive down the freeway, exiting about five miles down the road. It’s kind of embarrassing, showing him where I used to live. But then again, there’s nothing I can do about it. I guess I could have driven myself here, but I’m a little afraid to show up without someone with me. I kind of feel like I need protection.

Dean parks the car at the curb and then we’re out, his body so close to mine I can feel the heat radiating off him. Would he notice if I leaned in and sniffed?

He’d probably notice. My nose would totally whistle.

“This is where you live?” he asks, his lips turned down in a frown. I know what he’s thinking—that it’s not very nice and very run down.

“Well, yes. I’m twenty-two, Dean. I can’t afford a nice place. My boss pays me a shit wage.”

He scoffs and wraps his arm around my shoulders, pulling me up against him, right into his side. And I nearly die because now that I’m tucked under his arm, I can smell him. He’s delicious in a masculine kind of way. I want to turn my face and stick my nose right in his armpit.

He smells like gasoline and fire and smoke. He’s a real meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. I want to slather him in A1 Sauce and lick every hard inch of him.

But I bet this is more of a friendly, supportive hug—something he’d do for his son or his son’s friends.

That’s all I am. A young man in trouble that he wants to save.

He has a terrible habit of doing this.

We turn a corner in the walkway, and while I try not to lean too far into him, I refuse to step away because he’s touching me and it’s making this whole shitty situation so much better. I would get kicked out of my apartment any day if it meant he’d hold me like this.

Suddenly, my eyes pivot to my dilapidated apartment door, and I almost stumble when I see it. All of my belongings look like they were tossed haphazardly outside, some of them picked through. The large black trash bag they’d stuffed my clothing into has spilled open, and one of my bright red shirts is lying on the ground. A large box sits next to it, the lid wide open and a tear on the side.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, my entire body frozen because I’ve spent years collecting these clothes, scouring thrift shops and yard sales.

And they treated it all like trash.

Listen, if my heels are gone, I am straight-up going into murder mode.

Thank god I haven’t painted in over a year. My heart would have broken if they’d destroyed my canvases.

“Is that your stuff?” he asks, and I nod sadly.

“Who did this?” Dean asks, his hand tightening around me.

“My roommates.”

“Why?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks flame.

I don’t want to tell him. I worry he might literally kill someone, like a protective papa bear.

“Not telling you, Dean,” I murmur.

“Why do you always have to be so stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn. I just know what I want and I don’t want you getting involved in this.”

His fingers clench on my arm. “Avery, just say the word and I’ll make them disappear,” Dean says lowly, and the seriousness in his voice makes my entire body tremble. God, there’s nothing like talking about murder to get my libido going.

“No one is making anyone disappear,” I say sternly and then move toward my stuff, whispering I hate them under my breath and biting back tears.

I fall to my knees, quickly going through everything to see what’s gone. Not much, thankfully. I have enough clothes left and one pair of heels, which were tucked into the bottom of the bag. But there are things missing, like one of my favorite dresses and another pair of high-heeled boots. It will take years to replace them on my salary and with my school debt.

Fuckers.

Like hell I’m going to go back into that shitty apartment and ask where they tossed them—not that I think they merely threw them out. They probably cut them to pieces and burned them. But in the grand scheme of things, a few missing items of clothing and some art supplies from college are not a big deal. I’m just glad I escaped with only a bruised cheekbone and nothing else.

When closed-minded people don’t understand something, they lash out. Some even become violent. I could have lost my life.

I could be dead.

“Is that all of it?” Dean asks, and I sigh, swiping at my damp eyes, feeling a lump in my throat. Hateful, mean-spirited douchebags. I should never have moved in here. But at the time, I’d been straight out of college and desperate. And they seemed…nice-ish.

I hadn’t realized what a bunch of bigoted assholes they were deep down. But over time, I should have seen the signs, the red flags. I probably did, yet chose to overlook them in favor of keeping a roof over my head. And then last night, I let my guard down.

Huge mistake.

“Yeah. That’s it. Pathetic, right?” I ask, grabbing the large plastic bag and cramming my clothing back inside as best I can. How embarrassing is this, that Dean has seen me reduced to this?

Fucking pathetic.

“No, not pathetic. You’re not even close,” he says, hefting the box into his arms. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat and then we can head to my place and get you situated. This place is a shithole anyway.”

Ugh, well, I don’t feel much like eating, not when my stuff was just ransacked by strangers. I feel violated somehow—like I let them see a piece of me they didn’t deserve to know.

I blink rapidly, sniffling loudly and feeling like I want to curl in on myself as we make our way back to the car. I just want to have a good cry, but I don’t want to break down in front of Dean. I don’t want him to think that I’m some fragile boy who needs protection. I can take care of myself, and have been for many, many years.

“Avery, hey, come here,” Dean says softly when he sees me hunched over in my seat, my head against the glass of the window.

I peek over at him through wet eyelashes and see that he’s pointing to the middle seat of the Impala, right next to him. And suddenly, my tears are forgotten.

“What?” I squeak out.

“Come here,” he reiterates.

“You mean, like right next to you?” I ask softly, and he nods.

Well, like hell I’m saying no to that. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Without a second thought, I unbuckle and scoot over to the middle seat, and he wraps that big arm around me again, pulling me into his side.

Just when I thought he couldn’t be any more perfect, he goes and holds me when I’m upset. How does he know exactly what I need without me saying a word? Now I’m even more in love with him. I’m marrying him in my mind. I’ve already picked out my wedding dress.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say, peeking up at him. “Now I’m going to expect cuddles every time I’m sad.”

He smirks and shrugs. “We’ll see.”

Yes, we will.

We drive back across town and grab some fast food before heading to his place. It’s a small, one-story house with a detached garage—where Ben lives—set off to the side. There’s nothing spectacular about it, just an ordinary residence, but immediately my mind is conjuring up the things I’d do if it were mine. I’d paint it a wild color with a brightly colored door. Maybe blue and yellow. Potted plants would line the front porch, and I’d for sure add in some trees. Birch maybe, and some Canada red chokecherry trees. They aren’t really meant for this warmer climate, but they remind me of home. I used to watch them lose their leaves in the fall and bloom in the spring up in Northern California. It was the one thing I liked up there, besides my sister, of course.

“Home sweet home,” Dean says, moving his arm away from me and shutting off the car. He gets out, popping the trunk in the process, and grabs all my stuff, slinging the black plastic bag over his shoulder and jostling the box in his other hand. I just stand there and watch this man carry all my belongings into his house. Really, I’m ogling his back muscles which are clearly visible beneath his shirt and trying to regain my bearings. After all, I was just snuggled up against him for twenty minutes. I can smell him on me.

He didn’t even remove his arm when we went through the drive-thru—just acted like this was totally normal.

Nothing about my situation is normal.

Dean is straight. He likes women. Do not get any ideas up in that pretty head of yours, Avery Mitchell.

I grab the greasy bag of food from the passenger seat and follow Dean inside the house, looking around at the sparsely decorated space. It’s a total man cave.

I would toss some colorful paint on the walls and buy some throw pillows to lighten the space up. God, if this house was mine, I would give it the biggest makeover. You wouldn’t even recognize it.

Quickly, I shake those thoughts away because I sound ungrateful. I’m so fucking thankful I have a place to sleep tonight. Sleeping in a car is hell. I’m so glad I’m not doing that again tonight.

“Back here,” he says, moving down a short hallway and pushing open a door with his foot.

“Here you go,” he says, carefully setting the box and bag down on the floor. A twin bed is pushed up against the wall and a small desk with a computer sits directly opposite. There’s a dresser shoved into the closet and a dead plant on the windowsill. The carpet is gray and the walls are plain white, paint chipping in some places.

I’d paint this room lavender and fill that windowsill with potted plants galore. Maybe if I have a chance, I can paint a canvas and hang it on the wall.

“It’s not much…”

“It’s perfect.” I grin at him, and his cheeks redden. I look away, trailing my hand over the soft comforter on the bed before looking out the window and seeing the backyard. “Where’s your bedroom?” I ask, turning to face Dean, tucking my hands into my overall pockets .

His hands are clutching the doorframe, his shirt riding up that muscular torso, showing me just enough skin to make my entire body break out in a sweat. Holy shit, he looks like he should be on a wall calendar. A sexy older man calendar.

I’d buy that in a heartbeat and jack off to it nightly, coming right across his face. I’d have to tuck it under my mattress because it would be stained and filthy.

“Just over here,” he says, nodding behind him.

“That’s so…close,” I say, swallowing, and he smiles softly at me.

“It is.”

Then he’s pulling away from the door and moving out to the kitchen, saying, “Gonna go eat so I can get back to work.”

And I’m left wondering what the fuck just happened. I must have imagined it. I’ve obviously lost my marbles. That punch to my face has rattled my brain. He did not smile softly . He just smiled. A nice, platonic grin.

I’m just imagining the sexual tension to try to distract myself from the fact I’m homeless. I have nowhere to go after this. I will need to start looking for apartments immediately.

Toeing the box Dean set on the floor with my shoe, I shake my head. I’ll organize all my crap later—right now, my stomach is rumbling. I haven’t eaten since last night and I’m famished. I’m like a crocodile. I need to gorge. The amount of food I can put down is admirable. You should see what I can do with a cock.

When I move into the kitchen, I see Dean sitting on a chair at a worn table, my food laid out next to his. Is this what it will be like living here with him? Sharing meals and tables and laundry machines?

I’m not sure I can handle this. It’s so…domestic.

“You all right?” he asks as I pull the chair out and plop down onto it, our knees hitting under the table. I feel that all the way up to my dick.

“Yeah, I will be. This is just par for the course. I should have known they’d do that to my stuff. They were always a little…strange.”

Dean takes a bite of his hamburger, that strong jaw working back and forth.

“You tell me if you want me to set them straight. ”

“Honestly,” I say, popping a french fry into my mouth and chewing. “I just want to forget we ever met. I’ll be a happier man that way.”

He wipes at his mouth, his dark eyes meeting mine. “You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you got in a fight?”

I shove a huge bite of burger into my mouth, nearly choking, because I’m not sure I want to divulge that. It’s too embarrassing.

So, I just chew my way sloppily through the meal, not giving myself a chance to speak. Dean’s eyes watch me, twinkling at my antics.

Yes, well, laugh it up, buddy. I’d rather choke than tell you about what I like. I’m not sure you’d accept it and that scares me more than Nick coming after me with his fists.

When I’m finally done swallowing down my food, my stomach rolls a little. I’m stuffed full and I feel kind of nauseous.

“Did you even breathe?” he asks, still working on his food. God, he eats slow.

“It’s better to just inhale,” I reply, taking a sip of my lemonade. “And since when do you eat like a gentleman?”

“I always eat like a gentleman,” he replies, and I raise my eyebrows at him.

“You do not.”

He scoffs, leaning back in his chair, his large thighs stretched out before him.

“Yeah, I fucking do.”

Well, now I just want to crawl onto his lap and straddle him. If he knew the nasty thoughts I have about him, he’d surely kick me out. So I clamp my mouth shut. I’m keeping those to myself.

“Well, what do we do now?” I ask when Dean leans forward and takes another small bite of his food.

“I’ll finish up and then we can head back to work. Unless you want to stay here?”

I chew on my bottom lip, Dean’s eyes catching on the movement.

“I can do whatever. I still have payroll to do…”

“It can wait.”

I eye him and then nod. “Well, if I stay here, can I wash my clothes?” I ask because I feel like someone trampled all over them and I need to wash the violation away. I’ll feel better once that happens .

“Of course.”

He stands up and leads me to where the washer and dryer are tucked away. I gather and throw my clothes in, making sure to secretly sniff his detergent before adding it. It smells like him. God, I’m going to smell like him now. I’m going to be wearing his scent.

I’m going to have issues when my door is closed at night. I’m going to turn over in my sheets, press my nose against the fabric, and rub one out.

I feel nervous and excited and naughty just thinking about it. The things I will do to that bed in the middle of the night. I will violate the fuck out of it.

I need a priest and a good strong drink.

“You good?” Dean asks from behind me, and I turn, knocking my head on the side of the door.

“Oh fuck,” I hiss, and he’s right there, his hands on my face, tilting my chin up and sliding his fingers through my hair.

“Shit, Avery. Where does it hurt?” he asks.

My dick. That’s where it hurts, Dean.

But I just roll my lips between my teeth and whimper.

“Come on. Let’s get you some ice,” he says, his breath skirting across my forehead, and I just go limp. I need smelling salts if I’m gonna live here and he’s gonna be touching me.

He catches me in those thick arms, and his eyebrows meet.

“Fuck, did you hit your head that hard? Are you dizzy?”

Nope, Dean. Just high on you.

“I’m fine. I don’t need ice. I’m an adult, not a toddler.”

His rough fingers scrape gently across my skin, and my eyes roll back in my head. But then he slowly pulls away.

“All right then, if you’re sure. I should head out,” he says, his voice a little lower, and I swallow roughly. Oh my god, I was just leaning into him and his hands were all over me.

For fuck’s sake. I’m definitely hallucinating. I need to get some sleep tonight and wake up in my right mind, or else living with Dean is going to be the death of me.